Now the man rose to his feet. He came out from behind the table and rolled the corpse over with his boot. The rider’s arm swung out and his knuckles struck against the floor. The man bent down and removed the documents from the rider’s pocket.
“You’ll drink now, you fascist son of a bitch,” he said. Then he took the bottle of vodka and emptied it out over the rider, soaking his head and shoulders and pouring a stream along the length of his legs. When the bottle was empty, he threw it away across the room. The heavy glass slammed against a rotten wall but did not break.
The man stashed the money and the documents in his pocket. Then he gathered up his gun, his little cups, and his box of cigarettes. On his way out of the house, he spun the metal wheel of his lighter, and when the fire jumped up from the wick, he dropped the lighter on top of the dead man. The alcohol burst into flames with a sound like a curtain billowing in the wind.
The man walked out into the farmyard and stood before the motorcycle, trailing his fingers over the Zundapp name emblazoned on the fuel tank. Then he straddled the motorcycle and lifted the helmet and goggles from the place where they hung on the handlebars. He put on the helmet and settled the goggles over his eyes. The heat of the dead man’s body was still in the leather eye pads. Kick-starting the motorcycle, he drove out onto the road and the Zundapp snarled as he shifted through the gears.
Behind him, already in the distance, a mushroom cloud of smoke rose from the blazing ruins of the farmhouse.
OFFICIALLY, THE BORODINO RESTAURANT, LOCATED IN A QUIET STREET just off the Bolotnaya Square in Moscow, was open to the public. Unofficially, the owner and headwaiter, a gaunt-faced man named Chicherin, would size up whoever came through the front door, its frosted glass panes decorated with a pattern of ivy leaves. Then Chicherin would either offer the patrons a table or direct them down a narrow, unlit corridor to what they assumed was a second dining room on the other side of the door. This would take them directly into an alley at the side of the restaurant. By the time they realized what had happened, the door would have locked automatically behind them. If the patrons still refused to take the hint and chose to come back into the restaurant, they would be confronted by the bartender, a former Greek wrestler named Niarchos, and ejected from the premises.
On a dreary afternoon in March, with clumps of dirty snow still clinging to the sunless corners of the city, a young man in a military uniform entered the Borodino. He was tall, with a narrow face, rosy cheeks, and a look of permanent curiosity. His smartly tailored gymnastyrka tunic fitted closely to his shoulders and his waist. He wore blue dress trousers with a red line of piping down the outside and knee-length black boots which glowed with a fresh coat of polish.
Chicherin scanned the uniform for any sign of elevated rank. Anything below the rank of captain was enough to qualify a soldier for a trip down the corridor to what Chicherin liked to call the Enchanted Grotto. Not only did this young man have no rank, he was not even wearing any insignia to denote his branch of service.
Chicherin was disgusted, but he smiled and said, “Good day,” lowering his head slightly but not taking his eyes off the young man.
“Good day to you,” came the reply. The man looked around at the full tables, admiring the plates of food. “Ah,” he sighed. “Shashlik.” He gestured towards a plate of fluffy white rice, on which a waiter was placing cubes of roast lamb, onions, and green peppers, carefully sliding them from the skewer on which they had been grilled. “Has the lamb been soaked in red wine”—he sniffed at the steam which drifted past his face—“or is it pomegranate juice?”
Chicherin narrowed his eyes. “Are you looking for a table?”
The young man did not seem to hear. “And there,” he pointed. “Salmon with dill and horseradish sauce.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Chicherin took him gently by the arm and steered him down the corridor. “This way, please.”
“Down there?” The young man squinted into the dark tunnel of the corridor.
“Yes, yes,” Chicherin reassured him. “The Enchanted Grotto.”
Obediently, the young man disappeared into the alley.
A moment later, Chicherin heard the reassuring clunk of the metal door locking shut. Then came the helpless rattle of the doorknob as the young man tried to get back in.
Usually people took the hint, and Chicherin never saw them again. This time, however, when the young man reappeared less than a minute later, still smiling innocently, Chicherin nodded to Niarchos.
Niarchos was smearing a grubby-looking rag inside glasses used for serving tea. When he caught Chicherin’s eye, he raised his head with a short, abrupt movement, like a horse trying to shake off its bridle. Then, very carefully, he set down the glass he had been polishing and came out from behind the bar.
“There seems to be some kind of mistake,” said the young man. “My name is Kirov, and—”
“You should go,” Niarchos interrupted. The Greek resented having to come out from behind the bar and lose the pleasant flow of daydreams as he mindlessly polished glasses.
“I think—” Kirov attempted once more to explain.
“Yes, yes,” hissed Chicherin, appearing suddenly beside him, the smile having evaporated from his face. “Some kind of mistake, you say. But the only mistake is your coming in here. Can’t you see that this is not the place for you?” He glanced out over the tables, populated mostly by jowly, red-faced men with grizzled hair. Some wore olive-brown gabardine tunics bearing the ranks of senior commissars. Others had civilian clothes, of European cut and good-quality wool, so finely woven that it seemed to shimmer beneath the orchid-shaped light fixtures. Sitting among these officers and politicians were beautiful but bored-looking women, sipping smoke from cork-tipped cigarettes. “Listen,” said Chicherin, “even if you could get a table here, I doubt you could afford the meal.”
“But I have not come to eat,” protested Kirov. “Besides, I do my own cooking, and it looks to me as if your chef relies too heavily on his sauces.”
Chicherin’s forehead crumpled in confusion. “So you are looking for a job?”
“No,” replied the young man. “I am looking for Colonel Nagorski.”
Chicherin’s eyes widened. He glanced towards a table in the corner of the room where two men were eating lunch. Both of the men wore suits. One was shaved bald, and the great dome of his head looked like a sphere of pink granite resting on the starched white pedestal of his shirt collar. The other man had thick black hair combed straight back on his head. The sharp angle of his cheekbones was offset by a slightly pointed beard cut close against his chin. This made him look as if his face had been stretched over an inverted triangle of wood, so tightly that even the slightest expression might tear the flesh from his bones.
“You want Colonel Nagorski?” asked Chicherin. He nodded towards the man with the thick black hair. “Well, there he is, but—”
“Thank you.” Kirov took one step towards the table.
Chicherin gripped his arm. “Listen, my young friend, do yourself a favor and go home. Whoever sent you on this errand is just trying to get you killed. Do you have any idea what you are doing? Or who you are dealing with?”
Patiently, Kirov reached inside his jacket. He removed a telegram, the fragile yellow paper banded with a line of red across the top, indicating that it had come from an office of the government. “You should take a look at this.”
Chicherin snatched the telegram from his hand.
All this time, the bartender Niarchos had been looming over the young man, his dark eyes narrowed into slits. But now, at the sight of this telegram, which looked to him so frail that it might at any moment evaporate into smoke, Niarchos began to grow nervous.
By now, Chicherin had finished reading the telegram.
“I need that back,” said the young man.
Chicherin did not reply. He continued to stare at the telegram, as if expecting more words to materialize.
Kirov slipped the flimsy paper from between Chicherin’s fingers and set off across the dining room.
This time, Chicherin did nothing to stop him.
Niarchos stepped out of the way, his huge body swinging to the side as if he were on some kind of hinge.
On his way to the table of Colonel Nagorski, Kirov paused to stare at various meals, breathing in the smells and sighing with contentment or making soft grunts of disapproval at the heavy-handed use of cream and parsley. Arriving at last beside Nagorski’s table, the young man cleared his throat.
Nagorski looked up. The skin stretched over the colonel’s cheekbones looked like polished wax. “More pancakes for the blinis!” He slapped his hand down on the table.
“Comrade Nagorski,” said Kirov.
Nagorski had turned back to his meal, but at the mention of his name he froze. “How do you know my name?” he asked quietly.
“Your presence is required, Comrade Nagorski.”
Nagorski glanced towards the bar, hoping to catch the eye of Niarchos. But Niarchos’s attention seemed completely focused on polishing tea glasses. Now Nagorski looked around for Chicherin, but the manager was nowhere to be seen. Finally, he turned to the young man. “Exactly where is my presence required?” he asked.
“That will be explained on the way,” replied Kirov.
Nagorski’s giant companion sat with arms folded, gaze fixed, his thoughts unreadable.
Kirov couldn’t help noticing that although Nagorski’s plate was loaded down with food, the only thing set in front of the bald giant was a small salad made of pickled cabbage and beets.
“What makes you think,” began Nagorski, “that I am just going to get up and walk out of here with you?”
“If you don’t come willingly, Comrade Nagorski, I have orders to arrest you.” Kirov held out the telegram.
Nagorski brushed the piece of paper aside. “Arrest me?” he shouted.
A sudden silence descended upon the restaurant.
Nagorski dabbed a napkin against his thin lips. Then he threw the cloth down on top of his food and stood up.
By now, all eyes had turned to the table in the corner.
Nagorski smiled broadly, but his eyes remained cold and hostile. Digging one hand into the pockets of his coat, he withdrew a small automatic pistol.
A gasp went up from the nearby tables. Knives and forks clattered onto plates.
Kirov blinked at the gun.
Nagorski smiled. “You look a little jumpy.” Then he turned the weapon in his palm so that the butt was facing outwards and handed it to the other man at the table.
His companion reached out and took it.
“Take good care of that,” said Nagorski. “I’ll be wanting it back very soon.”
“Yes, Colonel,” replied the man. He set the gun beside his plate, as if it were another piece of cutlery.
Now Nagorski slapped the young man on the back. “Let’s see what this is all about, shall we?”
Kirov almost lost his balance from the jolt of Nagorski’s palm. “A car is waiting.”
“Good!” Nagorski announced in a loud voice. “Why walk when we can ride?” He laughed and looked around.
Faint smiles crossed the faces of the other customers.
The two men made their way outside.
As Nagorski walked by the kitchen, he saw Chicherin’s face framed in one of the little round windows of the double swinging doors.
Outside the Borodino, sleet lay like frog spawn on the pavement.
As soon as the door had closed behind them, Nagorski grabbed the young man by his collar and threw him up against the brick wall of the restaurant.
The young man did not resist. He looked as if he’d been expecting this.
“Nobody disturbs me when I am eating!” growled Nagorski, lifting the young man up onto the tips of his toes. “Nobody survives that kind of stupidity!”
Kirov nodded towards a black car, its engine running, pulled up at the curbside. “He is waiting, Comrade Nagorski.”
Nagorski glanced over his shoulder. He noticed the shape of someone sitting in the backseat. He could not make out a face. Then he turned back to the young man. “Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Kirov. Major Kirov.”
“Major?” Nagorski let go of him suddenly. “Why didn’t you say so?” Now he stood back and brushed at Kirov’s crumpled lapel. “We might have avoided this unpleasantness.” He strode across to the car and climbed into the rear seat.
Major Kirov got in behind the wheel.
Nagorski settled back into his seat. Only then did he look at the person sitting beside him. “You!” he shouted.
“Good afternoon,” said Pekkala.
“Oh, shit,” replied Colonel Nagorski.